I was going to write about a milestone recently achieved by the three-being crew of Green Eyes; fifty-five hundred miles on The Great Loop so far. I guess the universe thought I was bragging or big-dealing something, which considering all that is happening in the world while we while away on a little tug boat, isn't a big deal at all. Still, I was going to memorialize the mileage with a pat-on-the-back post. Then we had our last anchorage in Florida, which was a big deal in the Chinese saying sense, May you live in interesting times.
Anchoring in a secluded cove within dingy distance of a white-sand beach, or up a fresh water creek, one so narrow the leaves at the tops of the trees on opposite banks touch in the center to create a lush, living ceiling, or anywhere on a clear, windless night when the moon is full and the stars light up the sky; these are the anchorages we seek. And when we anchor in such places, it always reminds us why our favorite healing thing/relaxing thing/rejuvenating thing is being in nature.
But even in 5500 miles, the majority of anchorages were more practical than pretty. The best anchorages (adequate depth, good anchor holding, plenty of room to swing in wind or current without hitting the shore or other craft) are often crowded with other boats, or they're located near a noisy bridge, or only exist as an icon on navigation charts because a previous boater running out of daylight or needing emergency shelter from a storm saw a marginally okay place to drop the hook. And believe me, those icons are much appreciated as reliable safe havens in a pinch. But they aren't worth writing home about for their beauty. So, even though anchoring makes us feel young and adventurous, most nights find us docked at a marina. The showers and laundry are convenient and there is usually a cafe or pub nearby, which is much appreciated by the ship's cook, me.
We wanted to be at the final destination of this leg of the Loop, Pensacola, Florida, and we were focused on getting there because bad weather was coming. And well, hurricane season begins June 1st so we wanted to be out of Florida as soon as possible.
Up to now we'd been lucky with our multi-day crossings of the Gulf of Mexico. Other boaters had warned us of how rough the Gulf could get in high winds, but our crossing days were mostly smooth as silk. Long, eight to ten hour days, but smooth, and porpoise-full.
Our first intended marina stop after crossing the Gulf was at Carabelle, Florida, which is up a river and in the more protected inland waterway off the Gulf of Mexico. But what a shit show that was. The transient dock at the marina in Carabelle was under repair so, in high winds and a very strong tidal current, a lady on the dock tried to guide Scott to a tight spot, in between six pilings, three on each side, spaced around twelve feet apart. The idea is with this type of dockage is that you loop a line over the top of a piling, then secure the line to your boat. As you move forward in the “slip” the first mate runs around the boat looping lines and securing to the boat. Once the boat is tied to four or six pilings, it sits secure, but it is impossible to get off the boat. You are basically stuck until you cast off in the morning. The job of attempting to lasso the pilings fell to me. Ha! As Scott tried to navigate between the rows of pilings, the lady on the dock, who I'm pretty sure runs the country store adjacent to the marina, offered unhelpful advice, over and over and over, "You're gonna have to throw a stern line over that piling on your port side."
"You mean this piling that is twelve feet above me? The one I cannot possibly reach in a 26' Nordic Tug?"
"Yes ma'am. You're gonna have to get that stern line over that piling." Then, as the current and wind pushed the boat sideways, and our dingy that hangs from a davit at the stern of the boat bounced off one piling, then another, she shook her head and said, "Nope. Uh-uh." (pause) "You gotta first get that stern line over that rear piling. Then you gotta get that starboard line over the piling on the other side."
"Tris," Scott said when we were completely broadside and drifting into a massive trawler, "this isn't going to work. Come take the helm. Maybe I can push the boat off the pilings while you steer us either forward into the slip or outta here completely."
"Aye, aye, Cap." We quickly changed positions. The country store lady turned her attention to Scott. "You're gonna have to get that stern line over that rear piling first. And with two tide changes in eight hours, you're gonna have to reset the lines at least once before morning."
"Aye aye aye..." I muttered.
"You're gonna have to..." she started again. Scott interrupted the dock lady. "Uh, this isn't going to work for our boat. Is there another marina nearby?'
Shrug.
The wind was still holding us sideways to the pilings, not anywhere near being straight in. Using the thruster, I tried to push the bow around, but the wind and current were too strong and the boat held fast to the pilings. Standing up on the gunnel, and using all his might, Scott pushed the boat off the nearest piling, trying to keep subsequent pilings from getting stuck between the boat and the dingy. The current was unbelievably strong. With Scott's calm and excellent direction, "Okay, now forward. Okay, now port thruster. A little starboard. Okay now reverse HARD..." I managed to back us out by going at an angle between rows of pilings.
"Let's just go back and anchor near that nice beach we saw," I said once we were back in the channel. An hour earlier, we had passed a beautiful anchorage, which at the time we passed looked protected and peaceful. I suggested we drop the hook there and then, but Scott checked the weather and was worried about strong winds in the forecast, so we continued on to Carabelle.
We headed back the way we came. After thirty minutes, with the winds gaining in strength, Scott suggested a closer anchorage and we headed to that one. But when we arrived, the most secure spots were taken by other boats and, after testing a few insufficient depths nearby, we turned east and went all the way back to the pretty anchorage we had passed earlier. It took us an hour to get there.
Boy, the wind had really come up. With Scott out at the bow wrangling the anchor, I turned Green Eyes into the wind and Scott dropped the anchor. We dragged a bit at first, then the anchor set firm.
The anchorage was very pretty. We both had that "ahhhh" feeling. Day is done, we're safe and sound, let's have a beer.
Scott pulled two beers out of the ice chest and I made a quick batch of veggie nachos with black beans, tomatoes, cheese, salsa, and sour creme. I popped it in microwave to melt the cheese and brought the plate out to the back porch where Scott was already enjoying a beer. Yum, the nachos were good. But the wind and current caused the boat to roll violently from side to side. We had to set the plate on the deck and use the ice chest to block the wind. A third of the nachos went overboard. Beers were finished quickly before they spilled too much.
We noticed that the current, and the boat, were perpendicular to the wind. Normally, the bow of a boat points directly into the wind at anchor. But not that day, not at Dog Island West anchorage. "It's the strangest thing," Scott said, leaning out to look at the bow of the boat and the direction of the anchor line. "We can't roll like this all night." He checked our Windy app again. "Plus, the wind is forecast to increase through the night." He paused and shifted from sundowner mode to captain mode. "I don't feel good about this. Let's move the boat around that spit for a little more protection."
I started the engine and took the helm. Scott pulled up the anchor and thirty minutes later we set the anchor just fifty feet off a white sand beach at Dog Island East. The tide was going out again and just as the sun was setting, an overturned, wrecked boat was exposed near the shore. The onshore wind howled and the boat rolled. "But it's our last anchorage in Florida, and it is pretty," I said, taking in the beach, the wreck, the nacho crumbs, the spilled beer, and the setting sun.
There were notes about the anchorage from previous boaters in our navigation app that mentioned dragging potential in strong winds so we set the anchor alarm and went to bed. Our bed is super comfy, but it is one of those climb-over beds and Scott is on the inside, which is not a good place to be if you need to move quickly because the anchor is dragging and the boat is heading towards shore. Scott stretched out on the seven foot couch in the salon, Pika took up position midships on the floor of the helm in the middle where the wind and wave action would be least felt (she's such a smart ship's kitty), and I took the bed (because I'm smart too.) The crew of Green Eyes was ready to spring into action should the anchor drag in the night. We rocked and we rolled until the wind died down around midnight. We woke to a spectacular sunrise. The anchor came up clean. Our Garmin tracked the boat movement through the night and told an accurate story (see photo above. All those squiggles are movement.) Oh, and we hit the 5500 mile mark on our Great Loop, so there's that too.
Scott and Tris and Pika too.
June 3, 2022, Pensacola, Florida
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